


The First Taste

by AceQueenKing



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: AU: Hélène seduces Natasha instead of Anatole, Cunnilingus, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, First Time, Seduction, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Natasha is panting hard, looks caught as if she wants to bolt back to the countryside or jump to Hélène's bed and can’t quite decide which would be the safer choice. Her breasts are heaving most magnificently, even in the dress she's chosen."I do believe you shall make me miss most of my own ball," Hélène says.
Relationships: Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina/Natalya "Natasha" Ilyinichna Rostova
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	The First Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aunt_zelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/gifts).



The girl's shoulders are bare. The silk that clings to the bare edges of Natasha’s breasts looks as if it could slip any second. It is not hard to imagine why so many have turned their gaze to Andrey’s fiancée; not hard at _all_ to see why Natasha has captured the local _attention_ , as it were.

Hélène watches the newest member of high society from her opera box, her opera glasses pointed squarely at that scrap of silk where it met Natasha's arm. Hélène is staring. Hélène does not care if anyone observing _her_ happens to notice her staring. Let them see, let them gossip.

The rumors in Moscow have been so boring lately, with so many of the men off to war. Perhaps Helene’s interest will spin up some new ones? Something more fun than the old grudges they keep painting up and passing around. She can always say her interest is based on Natasha’s dress, should she have to dispel any inconvenient rumors.

Natasha's dress is gorgeous, built out of the silk and lace that is rare to find in Moscow, these days. Imported, surely? The bare shoulders are too new a fashion to be something Natasha has had sitting in her closet. Built well for her body, too. The silk clings to her curves. Hélène sees a high waist, low neckline; sees it contrasted with demure eyes. Natasha wears white, of course, as all good near-royal virgins do. She doubts that the prince would seek anything less in his marital arrangements. Such a shame for such a beautiful thing to lay untouched.

Hélène watches the silk as the diaphanous fabric clings to Natasha’s thighs, the soft white of the dress highlighting the beauty of Natasha’s skin.

"Lord alive," Fedya Dolokhov drawls. "Do you plan on watching any of the opera at all?" She catches the hint of jealousy in his tone; he is not entirely wrong to be jealous. Hélène is a woman in demand for anyone whose name is not Pierre. She gives him a heady look before she goes back to her glasses. He puts a hand on her shoulder.

"I suppose she is a pretty one," drawls Fedya. He puts his feet up on the edge of their seat. "Better than this dull opera."

"Shh." She waves him away. Normally she enjoys it when he skewers the operas, and normally she likes when he' s insouciant about the people around them. And, _perhaps_ , she enjoys Fedya’s jealousies, even though Hélène is well aware that the only reason Fedya Dolokhov has any interest in her at all is in that she is a beautiful woman with a husband who does not love her enough to keep a close watch, yet loves her just enough to resent her opera trips, her parties. Fedya is trouble. Hélène has never shied away from trouble.

She hears the feet that can only belong to her brother as he settles into the box behind her. He swaggers into his seat too loudly. "Anatole," she says sternly, somewhat resenting his presence; her brother has come to serve as her chaperone. The idea of her needing a chaperone itself is laughable, but especially so for Pierre to ask Anatole to serve as such. Anatole would promise her the world for a bit of string, if she asked it of her brother. "You'll startle the birds on stage with such stomping about."

"He's not concentrating on the birds," Fedya murmurs. Hélène follows Anatole’s eyes and sees where her brother's gaze lies: on a flutter of pale-white silk, on the ever lovely Natasha. Fedya turns back to face her; she can tell from the way he smiles, that Fedya thinks he's got quite a joke on his lips.

"Seems you and your brother have similar appetites," he says. She scoffs, nudges him. Neither confirms nor denies.

"She _is_ lovely," her brother says, his breath warbling as if he is gazing upon a treasured dream-mirage in a desert. He has always been a romantic, her brother. Almost miraculous that he’s held on to such, considering the home they were raised in.

"There is a universal truth in the pursuit of beauty," she says, quoting a book she thumbed once, one of Pierre's old dusty tomes when she once made an effort to try to find common ground with her old man.

"And you so clearly wish to pursue her," Fedya mutters darkly. Hélène, not one to take such impudence, shoots him a furious look. Darling idiot Fedya realizes he’s gone too far and sits up a little straighter. Doesn’t apologize but doesn’t continue the argument either.

Thankfully, at that moment, the house lights go down, saving them all the tiresome duty of squabbling about it all.

Dohlokov watches her. Anatole watches the Opera.

Hélène watches Natasha. 

When they leave, she's careful to wait to talk to the girl, just a bit. Anatole has beat her to the chase, but no matter. Natasha is flushed from her brother's indiscrete conversation, and Hélène bites back a smile at the thought of all the ways she should like to see that pretty face blush. How cute, to be of an age when one need only conversation to be titillated. When she brushes her hand against Natasha's own, she whispers, " _Enchante_ ," and Natasha grabs her hand with, she thinks, just a bit too much curiosity.

It drives Hélène wild; on her bed, that night, she replays that moment, rubbing her cunt in desperate desire.

* * *

"It's such a shame," Hélène said, rubbing her hand down Natasha's side. "To bury pearls in the country." These rural estates, she thought darkly, must be a rather dull place. Anatole had told her stories of his wife out in the country estates of Poland, and nothing in his description had made her long to go meet her erstwhile sister-in-law. At least Anatole could not interrupt them here: Anatole, like most men, has no access to these secret spaces where women met. A shame for him; how much clearer Natasha’s beauty was, when she was clad in only her under-slip.

Helene had caught her between fittings, with the thanks of good fortune. She had always enjoyed this dress shop. The women who worked there didn't mind the … _friendships_ of women, and none of them made so much as a peep as Hélène gently touched Natasha's clavicle.

“Surely you will come to my ball? Don’t let the name fool you —It’s just a little soiree.” The touch was intimate, and the girl shivered underneath her fingers. Poor thing; most certainly a little virgin. Oh, oh, how she couldn’t wait to change that. What his royal highness didn't know, she thought, certainly wouldn't hurt them. And Pierre could hardly mind this, she thought; no, this wouldn't lead to anything as dramatic and pathetic as his little toy-gun display with Fedya. Pierre was, after all, as enchanted by Natasha as she was. “Meant for intimate friends.”

"I'm not; erm, that is—" Natasha gulped. Poor little lamb. Hélène had had that effect on many a man but hearing it in a woman's voice — the tell-tale little gasp of infatuation — that was a wine Hélène wanted to drink most deeply. “I mean, I haven’t been to your—"

"You will be welcome. I trust I will see you there?" She ran her hand back up the girl's side and was satisfied to feel her tremble.

"Yes," Natasha says.

"Oh, yes," Hélène purrs in reply. One of the old babushka’s behind her titters; Hélène’s temper gets the best of her. "Such a shame, isn’t it, to let country swine in this shop, as if they can afford to handle these diamonds and pearls?" She says, sharp as she can. The babushka looks away.

“Pearls seem city attire to me," Natasha says, her voice an elegant, ethereal whisper. Hélène raises a brow; perhaps her sharp tongue will work to her benefit. She leans back towards Natasha, lets her mouth just — _just_ — scrape the girl's ear.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she breathes. "I do not think any attire could compare to the glory of _your_ pearl."

She pulls away quickly, before anyone else wants to give their opinion. As such, she is cruelly denied the look upon Natasha’s face. But it matters little; the soft gasp from Natasha's lips all but tells her that Natasha, too, has been consumed by a wine-dark desire.

* * *

Natasha is late for their party.

Pierre, too, watches the clock, if perhaps for different anxieties than her own. And, then again, perhaps not; Pierre and Hélène so rarely agree, but in terms of admiration, they both are quite taken with that young enchantress Natasha— if, perhaps, for different reasons.

"Hélène," her brother murmurs as he comes to her door. He gives her a wide smile, but she sees the way it falters when he scans her enormous salon and finds it void of Natasha.

"Brother," she murmurs. "Patience," she says, for she knows Anatole will see little of Hélène's girl this night. She will come though; Hélène is sure. She has mapped mountains in the heaving of the girl's breast; she will be drawn, as a moth to a flame. It will only take her time to arrive.

He nods, smiles tightly at her. Then, like Pierre, he makes a beeline for the alcohol.

Hélène, unusually, abstains. She wants to be sharp when the girl arrives; wants to make her memories as thick with detail as she can bear. She doubts Natasha will come often — it is not, after all, appropriate for a Tsarina to mix with such company as herself.

Sure enough, Natasha arrives, though it takes her until after the third rotation of the hour on Pierre's ugly clock upon their mantle. Hélène hates that clock. She has always hated that clock. It is ugly, patchwork, made of scraps Pierre has fished from something or somewhere else.

She is grateful Natasha's eyes do not turn to it as she slips into the salon. Normally, Hélène would not wait at the door for so late a guest but — she has, today. The party is thankfully in full swing; all the more advantageous, for the hostess to take the girl away.

"Hello," the little bird says, in her high and tremulous voice. Hélène's smile widens. She will make the girl sing like a canary. The band ought to play loud enough to render such sweet noises silent beyond a certain distance.

"My dear," she purrs, taking the young woman's hand. "So good you've come." She swallows the paces between them as quickly as a tiger; there is little point in not stalking her prey. She grabs both of the girl's hands. There is nothing so friendly in the gesture. She is sure that were Pierre or Anatole to look, they would be swallowing a heavy shot of vodka over Hélène having pipped them both to this, the future crown jewel of Russia. Hélène is a princess herself; a little country countess cannot help but fall for her charms. "Shall I give you a tour?"

Natasha, darling, too overcome to speak, just gives her the tiniest of nods — and the warmest of blushes. _Ah, my dear, my dear_ , Hélène thinks. Whatever would she even _do_ with such appetites, out in the country?

Hélène takes Natasha's hand; she does not bother to announce the rooms as she brings Natasha to her own bed. Pierre, she knows, would never dare to interrupt.

"You should see the view, my dear Natasha," she boasts; it is a bit of pageantry, nothing more. Hélène unlocks her door; Natasha goes in. Hélène locks the door behind her, and Natasha does not protest. 

"Perhaps you can see all the way to your home estate?" she says politely. She knows her view does not reach quite so far. Hélène would not wish to live with a bit of the countryside on display, anyway.

Natasha smiles gamely, shakes her little head just enough to signal to Hélène that she is wise to the mischief Hélène is playing with. "Sadly not. But I prefer cityscapes anyway."

She turns toward the window; Hélène lets her go, admires her figure. She is wearing the gown that she was trying on when Hélène seduced her in the shop. It is gorgeous, crinoline from a surely famous French house. The dress certainly suites Natasha, but then Hélène has always had an eye for beauty.

She joins Natasha at the window and they gaze upon the glory of the city below. "I do agree," she says. Her hand brushes Natasha's own. "I've always found the country life a bit too...parochial."

Natasha nods: her tongue gently juts out, touches just the — just the tip of her lower lip. It is a sensual move, and for a moment Hélène wonders which of them is truly the vixen. She places a hand on Natasha's shoulder and Natasha looks to her.

And then Hélène decides: the moment is right. Hélène reaches out her hand, cups the girl's chin. Country girl or no, Natasha leans into the touch.

"We shouldn't—" she says, on one tremulous breath, but she gets nothing else out, for then Hélène's lips are on her own. Hélène closes her eyes, submits as much to the kiss as Natasha does, and Natasha _does_ submit: her words smush into a small _mmph_ that quickly becomes an _mmm_ as Hélène's lips press upon her own. Natasha, much to her delight and surprise, does kiss her back, her lips sliding across Hélène's own. Fumbling lips — inexperienced. Hélène smiles as they separate; she will not be inexperienced for long. She will teach Natasha. Surely Prince Andrey will not mind.

Hélène has no problem doing such for her country.

"My dear," Hélène purrs. Natasha is panting hard, looks caught as if she wants to bolt back to the countryside or jump to Hélène's bed and can’t quite decide which would be the safer choice. Her breasts are heaving most magnificently, even in the dress she's chosen which is certainly as demure as the girl is. "I do believe you shall make me miss most of my own ball," Hélène says softly. Hopes it'll convince the girl to stay.

"We shouldn't," she says; disappointing. Hélène pouts. "What about —" Natasha has to catch her breath; Hélène basks in the compliment of having left her winded. "Pierre?" She finally manages to squeak out; Hélène rolls her eyes. "And Andrey! I can't."

"My dear, I assure you, Pierre is most aware. He knows there are...appetites, I have, that he cannot satisfy." A truth, or close enough to one. "He would not mind. And as for Andrey—" She sweeps her hands in a wide circle. "He is not here! And surely he would prefer that you...satisfy yourself, with one who will take care to leave you...intact?"

Natasha does not move for a long moment. Hélène watches her, watching her face as Natasha slowly considers what she has said.

"Andrey does not have to know," Hélène purrs. "I assure you, I know how to be.... _discrète_." The girl shivers; Hélène takes a step closer.

"Aunt Marya says you're a woman to avoid— _"_ Natasha takes a step back.

"Aunt Marya is an old fuddy-duddy who could stand to be kissed," Hélène counters. She holds out a hand. " _Natasha,_ " she pleads. "Do not deny yourself _pleasure_ over..." She snarls her lip, the concept tiresome merely in voicing it. " _Propriety_."

Natasha says nothing. Hélène waits a full, excruciating minute; she wants to crowd the girl, demand her answer. But she knows such will scare the poor little duck; she waits as Natasha smooths down her feathers.

" _Serons discrets_...?"Natasha says in a small voice at long, long last, just as Hélène's belly begins to quiver in fear that the beautiful girl will not submit to her. "You would..."

"Of course." She holds out her hand once more. " _Discrétion entre les femmes_ ," she says. " _Promets_." She is so happy, now, that her father insisted on those awful French lessons — they bored her as a child, but speaking the language of love is helping her now. Natasha's face is more longing than scared — she has her, she thinks. She is so close to _having_ her. She smiles wide, lets Natasha see her tongue glide against her top teeth. Such emboldens Natasha; she takes three steps forward , and Hélène forces herself not to tremble.

Then Natasha fumbles her arm over Hélène's shoulder, and then she kisses her. And it is, despite her youth, a very nice kiss! Natasha takes command, presses her lips to Hélène's own without a hint of delicacy. The passion is explosive, the kiss almost painful; Hélène leans into it, wraps her arms around Natasha as tight as they can. She is a small thing, Natasha, but the arms have surprising strength. Natasha squeezes her close as well, and Hélène smiles, even as Natasha continues to pepper her lips with kisses.

"We must not tell Andrey and—" Natasha breathes between kisses.

"No more talk of _men_ ," Hélène snarls, and brings her lips back over Natasha's. Natasha counters, pulling away and then sweetly peppering Hélène's lips with kisses. Hélène allows her to have a flurry of kisses before shifting her attention to focus on Natasha. Then, she slowly glides her lips over Natasha’s, taking care to slowly tease and flirt with all kinds of shameless flickers of her tongue. She pays attention to Natasha's reaction, the soft gasps and sweet sighs all signaling Hélène's victory.

"No more men," Natasha says, breath slightly shaking. Hélène raises an eyebrow and delicately takes her arm, directs her toward the bed. She should, perhaps, provide a gentler instruction, but there is little time. A party only lasts so long. She goes on the offensive, trusts the girl will follow. Grabs Natasha and squeezes at her bottom.

"Let me show you," Hélène whispers; doesn't bother to finish the sentence. She will figure it out in time if she can concentrate.

But then if she can concentrate, well, Hélène has just not done her job properly.

Hélène turns Natasha around, gently undoes the ties at the back of Natasha's dress.

"My dress, I can't get into it without—" Hélène rolls her eyes.

"I will help you redress, my dear." She rolls her eyes with Natasha turned the other way; foolish Natasha. Hélène has never been one to move so spitefully in her affairs; she would not leave Natasha naked in her bed. What would that accomplish? A bunch of tears? No. Hélène has much better plans for her; pleasure, for a start. She is a libertine, not a blackmailer. Now, perhaps, later, she will use her relationship with Natasha, should she have a need to speak to the crown for one thing or another — but is that not the same sort of agreement men have offered one another for centuries? She wills scratch Natasha's itch now, and Natasha will scratch hers in time.

Natasha puts up no more of a fight. She allows Hélène the honor of stripping her, and Hélène, slut though she may be, takes her time in depriving Natasha of her surely virginial undressing: she shakes like a little leaf, her skin full of gooseflesh. Hélène runs her hands down the girl's shoulders, parting the elaborate gown from Natasha’s body. Natasha shivers at the touch of her hands; Hélène is not unaffected herself, having to swallow her desire, which drifts from her lips to her belly in a pleasurable snake of warmth.

"What divine shoulders you have," she whispers; they are lithe and petite, as Natasha herself is. “Kissed by Aphrodite, your skin!” She is so beautiful. Hélène pulls at the straps of her corset, thankful to be slightly taller so that she can look over Natasha's shoulder, watch her breasts as they quiver. Natasha leans her hand back, rests it on Hélène's hip. The hand tightens with each bit of the corset that Hélène loosens, only releasing when Hélène succeeds in entirely removing it.

"Patience, my darling." She kisses on Natasha's shoulder; gently pulls the corset from her body. Natasha does not fight her, but her hands go to her breasts. Little virgin. She sighs, impatient, and pushes Natasha toward her bed. Natasha, taken by surprise, stumbles; she winds up splayed upon Hélène's bed.

Hélène's cunt quivers at the sight: Natasha half-bared, her warm skin splayed out on their bed. Revealed for the first time, surely. Hélène follows her to the bed, presses kisses to her back as the girl squirms and gasps under her. She explores Natasha's skin with her lips and her hands, kissing Natasha everywhere she can touch. Natasha turns onto her belly, clearly wanting a kiss to her mouth, and Hélène is all too happy to give it to her: they kiss pleasurably for a few moments before Hélène returns to her journey, lets her lips plant a trail across Natasha's shoulders and down to her lovely, lovely breasts.

They are every bit as glorious as a pearl in the country; Hélène cannot resist lathing one with her tongue. The sound Natasha makes is wantonness incarnate; a feverish dream that Hélène does not wish to end, and so spends precious minutes going between one breast to the other. Hélène lives for these moments, commits them to memory; Natasha is soft and warm and eager, eager, eager. She guides her hand lower as she works Natasha over with her mouth and she is unsurprised to find the girl soaking wet.

She presses one finger in on Natasha's underthings: the girl moans. She keeps up the pressure on it for a moment, one hand pressing on Natasha’s most secret of places, one hand helping Helene suckle on each of Natasha's breasts for a long moment.

"Please," Natasha moans; her hand reaches to Hélène's shoulder, unsteady. Natasha is out of her depth here. That is fine. Hélène wishes to own the girl, for now. She will pursue her own pleasure later. For now, she wishes only to see Natasha debauched, Natasha consumed by pleasure in her bed. 

"Please," Natasha pants again, desperation on her lips. Hélène quirks her lips into a smile, shifts so she can press a little kiss to Natasha's brow.

"Have you been with a woman, lovely?" She murmurs; she is the first, she has little doubt, but she wants to hear it, hear it from Natasha's lips, that she gave her first taste to Hélène, and not to Andrey or Anatole or Pierre or _anyone_ else.

"No," Natasha whispers. "I don't know how to—"

"Lay back, for now." She kisses Natasha's warm cheek; ah, how she blushes, the pretty. "You will enjoy this, I think." She won't ask for Natasha to return the favor; not today. Someday, perhaps; the thought of the grand tsarina going down on Hélène, her crown glittering from her bedroom lamp…yes, she will ask Natasha someday, to make that a reality.

But for now, she will merely ravish the girl. The first hit is always free, as some of her less illustrious lovers have said. For now, she presses Natasha's stomach with sweet kisses, lets Natasha call out her name in soft whispers, each of them a melody to her ear. She presses a quick and feverish tail of kisses to Natasha's cunt before sucking in on Natasha’s near-ruined underwear, lets the girl cry out with need for her before she maneuvers herself between Natasha's legs.

She wastes little time removing her underthings. Best to go straight off before Natasha overthinks it. Natasha barely has time to react to it before Hélène is between her legs, kissing her. Ah, she had forgotten how much she enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. Pearls like Natasha were a far-rarer thing; too many women swallowed that propriety bullshit, compared to the men. Ignored their potential to find pleasure in the hands of a woman.

Fools, the lot of them.

But not Natasha. No, that pearl was not buried out in the country mud at all: it glistened at the tip of her, a garnet jewel in a soft crown that made Hélène's mouth water almost as much as that beautiful, glistening vulva. She looked up at Natasha as she went up for the first lick; went slow, wanting the girl to know every possible second of Hélène's tongue as she made her way, exploring the lips of Natasha's cunt.

"Hélène," she said; a sweet song. Not many of her lovers bothered to address her by name; Hélène curled her tongue against Natasha's pearl in response, not breaking her view of the woman. Natasha's eyes fluttered as she moaned quietly; she would make a high-class wife someday, no doubt, already so good at keeping herself quiet. Hélène kept the pressure on, slow rolls of her tongue across Natasha's lips, backing off from her crown pearl, and instead licking up and down the sides of her labia. Then, and only then, once Natasha got used to that, Hélène would go back up, licking at her clit for a few precious moments. Natasha grabbed her hair, her mouth unsteady.

"Hélène," she murmured. You haven't even undressed, I can't—"

"Sshhh." She flickered her tongue against Natasha's cunt, a little flip-flip-flip that left Natasha unable to finish her sentence, her voice devolving until it was only groans. "Not this time."

Her own cunt was pulsing, but she was far more satisfied debasing Natasha. Natasha would go back out to that party, a blush on her cheeks, and no matter how many suitors that the princess-to-be held — well, it would always be Hélène who took the first pedal off her flower. Hélène would go back to the party smelling of her victory, and there was little she could imagine better than that.

Natasha closed her eyes, breathing heavy; permission. Hélène smiled and dove back to her work. She maneuvered one of her hands to Natasha's pert, little pink opening.

"Have you played with yourself here?" she asked; Natasha shook her head from side to side, did not voice another word. Well, that was fine; Hélène liked to think she was talented enough to leave her breathless. She placed her index finger at the edge of Natasha's opening, circling it and gathering some of Natasha's glistening wetness on her finger. She teased her mercilessly, licking around her clit.

"Please—" Natasha begged, though she could not know what she was begging for. Still, it was music to Hélène's ears, and she was all the more willing to give her what she was asking for: she twisted her finger inside her gently, licking at her clit. Tight little thing; one finger was enough for her. They'd work on that, if Natasha would continue to come to her parties.

Natasha yelled out, finally, blissfully loud, and Hélène did not care, though it was likely anyone who wandered to this hall might hear her. Close, so close; her walls were shuddering against Hélène's finger, her legs shuddering in time as Hélène licked with a passion on her clit. She suckled inwards, curling her finger inside Natasha's cunt, and felt Natasha climax under her fingertips. Even in this she was beautiful: her lips frozen in a soft wail, her eyes closed in bliss. Hélène would keep that in her memory box; use it when she got herself off later, finally relieved the ache that was cascading through her.

She went back to licking, letting the girl nurse two more aftershocks; they had the time, and Hélène knew the sweeter the taste, the more likely the woman was to come back for another party. She did not stop until she looked up at Natasha and found her fully debauched: sweaty, glamorous, perfect.

Then and only then did she back off, gently rubbing Natasha's thigh.

"It was a pleasure to become acquainted with you," she purred. "I do so hope you shall come back to see me again, my dear girl."

Natasha said nothing, staring upward; there were worries written in her face. Hélène rolled her eyes; she did not wish to hear of any potential whining for Andrey from Natasha. Andrey was far away, not here, and not likely to lose sleep over it. "Come," she said softly, tapping Natasha on the thigh. "Let me help you dress."

Though the girl took some time to get up, her body so exhausted — Hélène took this, too, as a compliment — she eventually submitted to the redressing. It was hard to let the girl seal herself back into her dress, though she did. Despite how well she'd put together Natasha's outfit, it was hard to deny that the woman had been ravished: her skin glistened, her hair remained sweaty. She still had traces of Hélène's perfume that clung to her skin, and that was the headiest aphrodisiac of all.

She led Natasha back to the party, herself no less out of breath — and she was certain her own outfit was rumbled, her hairpiece a mess, but she cared about neither. She'd had the first taste, and no matter how many mingled with Natasha this night, that would always remain true.


End file.
